


The Rule Of Opposites

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale loves Crowley, Condoms, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Desperation, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pain, Requited Love, Touching Causes Pain, incompatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 13:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22611469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which they are opposing forces, not designed to touch, anathema to each other. Crowley refuses to accept it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 235
Kudos: 1774
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations, Top Aziraphale Recs





	The Rule Of Opposites

They discovered the truth of it in Paris, at the end of the eighteenth century. After a plate of crepes and several bottles of expensive wine. Both of them still warm from what couldn't be considered anything other than a romantic rescue.

They'd been comfortably drunk, Aziraphale smiling at him, expression open and soft and unexpectedly _interested_. As if Crowley was something he'd found himself wanting, and that was new and shocking in a way that had broken all Crowley's patience and careful resolve to pieces. They'd already been half-turned towards each other on the bench, Aziraphale's pale eyes drifting from Crowley's wine glass to his mouth, a desire he couldn't quite voice. It was almost too easy in the end, after waiting for so long, for Crowley to lean in on the end of a laugh, desperate suddenly to show the angel how he felt, breath rushing out, as he'd pressed their mouths together -

Only to almost immediately jerk away from the angel with a hiss of shocked, burning pain, hand lifting to press against his stinging lips. Aziraphale was making quiet noises of distress at the other end of the bench, half folded into the table, fingers dipped hastily in his glass to rub at his rapidly reddening mouth, leaving wine stains and stark redness behind.

It was shocking enough to leave them suddenly sober, and obvious enough that no words were necessary. Their very essences were damaging to each other, the obvious burn of holy and unholy meeting impossible to deny. There was a significant difference, between knowing that you couldn't be together because of the prying eyes of Heaven and Hell, and knowing that you _couldn't_ be together, ever. Knowing that you were simply repellent to each other, at a very basic level, that touching brought nothing but pain.

Crowley's mouth had stayed angry red for almost a week, before eventually fading to nothing.

They hadn't talked about it afterwards, Crowley hadn't wanted to admit it out loud. They'd gone their separate ways as if nothing had happened. They'd erased that moment of connection, that moment of quiet and reckless affection, that had been immediately punished with pain. They'd settled into a refusal to acknowledge it, to deal with what it meant for them. When they met again, a year and seven days later, they'd haltingly continued as before, they ate together, drank together, conversed about all manner of things, but they'd remained seated a little further apart than before, both of them careful, both of them aware now. Both of them silent on the one thing that mattered.

Their essences could never mingle, they could never sink into each other and share anything of their true selves, they could never actually _touch_ each other. Even the purely physical, mortal imitation of it was closed to them. Their love was an impossible thing, strangled before they'd had the chance to do more than see it for what it could be. Crowley had been angry, he'd been so furiously angry at how cruel and personal it had seemed. A punishment made purely for him, because no other demon would have dared to love an angel, would have dared to think he was better than the rest of the corruption in the pit. He'd torn his rooms apart in a fit of madness, and cursed everything in Heaven and Hell. But he'd also refused to give in, he'd refused to accept it. He would love Aziraphale regardless. 

The careful distance between them was a new normal that lasted until nineteen forty one. When Crowley had rescued the angel, and a stack of books that he couldn't bear to lose. The depth of feeling between them had been too much to hide at that point. 

Crowley had driven him back to the bookshop, and Aziraphale had seated himself close, poured them wine all night. Until they'd been even more drunk than the first time, on the edge of a confession that seemed suddenly unbearably painful, for all the things they couldn't have, all the things they couldn't be to each other. But it'd been there all the same, the fact that they _loved_ , and that they couldn't act on it. That it was not only forbidden but impossible.

"Is that what I feel like?" Aziraphale had asked over his glass, words thick with hurt, voicing things they hadn't spoken about for almost a hundred and fifty years. 

Crowley didn't have to ask what he'd meant. It was clear he was talking about the church, about that searing burn of holiness that he couldn't bear for long - the same burn that had chased itself over his mouth when he'd dared to kiss an angel. He'd wanted to ask what it felt like for Aziraphale, if it was a burning fire, a heated sharpness that splintered through his skin and dug all the way through him. Or whether it was different for the angel, whether it was a creeping corruption, a curdled, bubbling tearing sensation, caused by his unholy flesh. He hadn't been able to answer the question, but Aziraphale had heard him all the same. Instead of pulling away he'd moved closer than they'd been for years, glass of wine set on the table so hard it spilled. He'd laid his warm hand on Crowley's, the softest ache of pain, and Crowley had been lost, completely and irrevocably.

Aziraphale had lifted his other hand, a question in the tension of his eyes. Crowley had tipped his head forward and let Aziraphale take his glasses. They'd ended up folded and set down between the empty bottles, and Aziraphale's hand had found its way around the narrow line of his tie, another question, but this time far more complicated. How much can I take from you? How much would you let me have? 

Crowley had pinned the angel to the sofa, fingers tangled in his jacket and his waistcoat, pressing into him, needing to be close to him, needing to feel that thrumming, static charge that was _Aziraphale_. All the thick clothing between them was a blessing rather than a curse. Crowley couldn't have remained still against the angel if he'd tried, tucked in between his plush thighs, one pressed tight and strong against his hip the other pinned down by Crowley's hand, fabric bunched and torn in his grip. 

"Please don't kiss me," Aziraphale had breathed, as if it wasn't the only thing in the world he'd wanted, hands fisted tightly in Crowley's jacket. "I don't want to hurt you." His mouth had been so soft and so red, inches away the whole time. 

You already have, Crowley couldn't help but think. 

"I know, I know," he'd gritted out instead, body grinding into the angel's in quick, rolling pushes. He could feel everything, and he could feel nothing. Crowley had loved and hated every second of it.

They'd separated immediately afterwards, too aware of the danger of anything soaking through their clothes. They'd laid side by side, breathing in a way neither of them had to, hands itching to reach out, scratching uselessly at cushions instead. Crowley's whole body had felt wrung out and frustrated, trembling with aftershocks that didn't feel deserved. Aziraphale had asked him, haltingly, if perhaps they could turn off their ability to desire. As if that was the only way they wanted each other, as if he'd thought that if they just stopped wanting the physical closeness then the rest of it wouldn't hurt so much.

Crowley had demanded to know what else they should turn off, bitten out every word, not even attempting to hide his pain. Until Aziraphale had apologised, voice soft and hurt. He'd told Crowley that he was right, that it was a thoughtlessly cruel thing to ask for. He'd threaded his strong fingers through Crowley's own and squeezed, made them ache and burn, like the skin was cracked and the joints were swollen stiff.

Crowley didn't let go until their palms were blistered red and weeping.

~

Aziraphale had brought him holy water, and Crowley couldn't help but feel that it wasn't a peace offering but a penance. Something quiet and pleading in the angel's expression. Until he'd smothered it, asked for time, for understanding, he'd told Crowley that one day they'd dine together, or go for a picnic, where anyone could see.

Crowley hadn't been able to leave it like that. 

"You know how I feel about you." The words had cracked out of him like they were ready to be free. He'd held onto them for too long already. But it hadn't helped - it hadn't fixed anything, hadn't made anything easier. Instead, Aziraphale's expression had pinched in, soft and devastated, as if Crowley was the one who'd done something cruel this time.

"You're too much for me, Crowley," he'd said quietly, pushed at the door handle, leaving Crowley in the Bentley alone.

Crowley would have done anything.

_Anything_.

~

Armageddon had made Crowley reckless. But its aftermath, strange and quiet and suddenly freeing, leaves him tired, and calm. There's no reason to hide any more, no reason to pretend they don't love each other. He's willing to make sacrifices, to do anything - to be anything that Aziraphale needs him to be. Because doesn't happiness always require sacrifice? 

He's made his decision, and he's surprisingly at peace with it.

Until he finds himself watching TV at two in the morning, and he has a fucking revelation.

~

Aziraphale smiles when he sees him, as if he no longer cares if anyone knows. He tugs off the small glasses that he really only wears for show, moves towards him as if he can't help himself. 

"Crowley, your timing couldn't be better, I was just closing for the day."

The angel makes them both tea, and Crowley hovers at his side, shoulders gently jostling, close enough to feel the warmth of him, in a way that he's starting to suspect Aziraphale enjoys as much as he does. Though Crowley doesn't give off any body heat to warm the angel in turn, which has always seemed like an unfair trade. A suggestion somehow that Crowley has nothing to give him.

He waits until they're sitting at the table in the back room, waits as long as he dares before he forces himself to speak. 

"So, I was thinking about things." Crowley pushes a hand into his back pocket and then drags it back out, drops the box it holds on the table.

Aziraphale blinks surprise over his tea, at the packet of condoms in front of him.

It had been an advert, a stupid fucking advert at two in the morning, sexy young couples doing sexy young couple things. Condoms. The idea had rolled around in Crowley's head, less ridiculous the more he considered it. The idea of it had turned into the _idea_ of it, and he'd found himself in Superdrug the minute it opened, staring at an entire shelf of condoms and lubricants, hands pushed into his pockets hard enough to make his wrists ache. It's not like they hadn't been around for hundreds of years, but they'd always been a bit distasteful, bits of animals and so forth. Not so much a barrier as an extension of flesh. But these were pure, human ingenuity, latex, fucking latex, a material pulled out of absolutely nothing. Science at its most inventive.

"Crowley." There's a question, surprise and caution and not a little fear in his name, fear of what he's quite obviously suggesting.

"For all their faults, you can't say humans aren't clever," Crowley explains, before Aziraphale can say anything else, before he can protest the idea of it. "You can't say they aren't inventive. Give 'em something impossible and they'll bang their heads against it until it's something they can have. Old as we are, I think we take too much for granted, accept too many things as just how it's supposed to be. Maybe we should think like them for a change and explore our options?"

Aziraphale is quiet for a long time, and Crowley realises, with not a little surprise, that he's actually seriously considering it.

It had never occurred to Crowley that he wouldn't be the only one of them determined to make sacrifices to be together. That just as Crowley had been willing to sacrifice everything to make Aziraphale happy. Aziraphale was willing to be reckless for the same. He doesn't expect that to hurt so much, but the ache is surprisingly sweet, enough that he can't blame the angel for it. 

"We would still have to touch," Aziraphale reminds him carefully, as if Crowley has forgotten. 

Skin to skin has never been as bad as anywhere that held an essence of them, sweat, saliva - other bodily fluids. But it still hurts, it still stings like every inch of their skin is new and raw, a press of fingers spreading that pain into the ache of deep bruises, of torn skin. And it gets worse over time.

"We would," Crowley admits. But holding hands has become a habit they indulge in lately, one that Crowley wouldn't give up for anything. A throb of discomfort tangled up with the sweet, soft squeeze of Aziraphale's fingers. He knows that the angel feels the same, in the way he's always so reluctant to let him go. "We would, but we can cope with that, just enough of it to - to do it right."

Aziraphale's fingers draw the box closer to him, until he can lift it and scrutinise the small writing.

"I confess, I have no experience with these," he admits. "Which do you think would be safer, vaginally or anally?" The question is slow and considered, as if it's a thought experiment he wants to discuss, though Crowley can see Aziraphale's hands, the way they fidget with the box, unable to rest. Crowley has to swallow, because the angel's tone is dry and curious, as if they're discussing something perfectly decent, and not the mechanics of how they're going to try and fuck each other. Satan, even thinking it inside his own head squeezes all the air out of his chest for want of it. But he knows he has to let Aziraphale find his own way there. He has to let Aziraphale make the choice.

"Less fluids if we do it anally," Crowley says, trying his best to make his voice as casual as he can, to not push this in any way. Even though he'd been thinking about it for days. Vaginally was too risky, especially if Aziraphale's going to be touching him, if he's going to be in bed with him, all that pale, soft skin on display. If Crowley had a vagina he'd soak through his underwear in minutes, leave the glistening slickness of his own arousal absolutely everywhere. That was too dangerous for the angel, there'd be too much risk that it would get on him, that it would burn him.

Aziraphale frowns. "Though with a penis there's always the danger of -" He stops, clearly uncertain how to phrase it.

Crowley watches Aziraphale attempt to convey the words 'splash range' in a way that isn't vulgar, which is enough to drag a half-smile out of him, chest jerking once in amusement. He seems to give up in the end, once he realises that Crowley knows exactly what he means. His fussy noise of protest at being gently mocked somehow pulls half the tension out of Crowley's spine.

"If I'm on my back none of it will touch you," Crowley explains. "It'll all end up on me." It would probably be safer still if Aziraphale fucked him from behind, but Crowley wants to see him, he needs to see him. He can't bear the thought of not seeing him if they're going to try this.

Aziraphale's exhale shivers out of him, like he's picturing it, and any further questions or protests he'd had are all but forgotten under the possibility of it. Crowley isn't sure how he's supposed to keep a clear head for that. How he's supposed to have this conversation when Aziraphale is across the table _wanting_ him, almost hard enough to feel. This is uncharted territory for the both of them.

"It'll be fine," Crowley reassures him, even though he has no idea if it will or not, even though part of him is still terrified.

"I won't be able to - to stretch you out beforehand," Aziraphale says, sounding apologetic and disappointed. As if he'd thought about it, as if he'd imagined it, and Crowley's whole body just fucking _yearns_. Before he stamps on it and makes himself concentrate, because Aziraphale is nervous and he needs to question, he needs to know exactly what's expected of him.

Crowley nods, jerkily. "It's ok, I can do that part." 

Aziraphale stares at him for a moment longer, and Crowley realises that he's already said yes, that he's already agreed to do this with him. And all of a sudden it feels like madness, like reckless madness, to risk the angel this way. But pulling back from this feels almost impossible now.

"When did you want to - when did you want to try?" Aziraphale asks.

It's a stupid question to put to him, because Crowley feels utterly filled with it, with the need to _know_ right now. If it isn't going to work he'd rather know as soon as possible, rather have that failure out in the open. He'd rather feel the devastating disappointment and then move on.

"Whenever you want," he says quietly instead. Because he doesn't trust himself, he's afraid that he wants it too much. That he'll go too fast, mess this up somehow with his impatience and his desperation. He needs to let Aziraphale be the voice of reason here, he trusts him to do this right if they're going to do it at all. Aziraphale knows - he always knows how to say no, how to put the brakes on, how to save them both. The angel folds his glasses and set them carefully on the table, and then holds a hand out for Crowley's, while he slips the condoms into his pocket with the other. Which suggests that maybe Aziraphale needs to know as well. Crowley can't help how tightly he squeezes the angel's fingers, hard enough to hurt, to hurt them both, when Aziraphale coaxes him to follow him through the back, and up the narrow stairs.

Aziraphale's bedroom is clean and bright, the bed less Victorian and more inviting than Crowley was expecting. He'd been under the impression that Aziraphale didn't sleep, but maybe he likes the idea of sitting in bed reading a book, cocoa in his free hand, maybe a slice of cake in the other, through the darkest, coldest hours of the night. Perhaps Crowley could ask to join him some time, could offer to warm the other half of his bed. He wonders, absently, if they could bear to sleep with their fingertips touching.

There's a strange, confused moment where they aren't certain whether to undress themselves or each other. Aziraphale huffs a nervous laugh, and Crowley is shaking a little, though he's loath to admit to it, he honestly doesn't know if it's excitement or fear. Not of the act itself but the possibility that this is all for nothing, that it still won't be enough, that whatever makes them burn each other will be strong enough for condoms to mean nothing. 

He has to get that out, has to reassure Aziraphale that even if it doesn't work, even if it hurts them, he's not going anywhere, he's _never_ going anywhere.

"There's a chance this won't work - that using them won't make a difference." Crowley can feel his mouth twisting angrily down and makes it stop. "But I won't let it - I'm not going to -"

Aziraphale shushes him and draws him in. 

"I know, my dear, it's alright, I feel like we've both earned a moment to be brave." He carefully peels Crowley's thin, silvery shirt over his head, likely leaving his carefully miracled hair in complete disarray. Crowley thinks for a moment that the angel's going to carefully fold it, but instead he just lets it fall, and Crowley can't help the cough of surprised laughter.

They can't kiss, they both know they can't, but Aziraphale still pulls Crowley's long, lanky body in close, strong hands a sting on his waist, breath against the corner of his mouth. He touches Crowley like he thinks he might not get another chance. Being careful to avoid anywhere the skin is warm, anywhere sweat can collect, which always seems to hurt the most, a biting ache turned to burning, to searing and blistered skin. 

But he wants more of the closeness, of the ozone ripple of Aziraphale's edges against his own. It feels like everything Crowley never knew he needed, every single time. He's thought about this more times than he can count, about the possibility of this, just carefully touching each other until it's too much, and then separating to come. He's wanted it, but hasn't known how to ask for it, hasn't known how to make it sound like anything but more proof of their incompatibility - and he's tried so hard to make sure Aziraphale never uses that word, that he never thinks it about the two of them. The fact that they can't give each other everything, the fear that their original forms would destroy each other completely. That all forms of non-corporeal connection are barred to them forever. Crowley hadn't wanted to make that real. To make it something that he had to accept, or to voice out loud. He'd been pretending it didn't matter for years, and Aziraphale had let him.

Aziraphale's body is beautiful, when he carefully strips his clothes free, and it hurts that Crowley can't touch it as much as he wants to, that he can't show Aziraphale how he feels, press his hands to it and worship it with his mouth like it deserves. He wants nothing else than to cover it with his own, until he loses track of where he ends and Aziraphale begins, stay tangled in the angel for as long as he would let him.

"Look at you," he says instead, the words breathless and hungry. "Just as lovely as I knew you would be." Crowley settles for brief drags of his knuckles, or fingertips, on the angel's soft curves, and solid lines. Gentle touches that he hopes are soft enough to arouse rather than sting. Aziraphale gives a soft sigh and submits to every touch.

Crowley's not expecting the angel to grasp his wrist, to pull gently, until his hand is flat on Aziraphale's chest. A prickle-burn that spreads and pinches. His exhale falls out of him, and he forgets to draw in another.

"Aziraphale."

"I would dearly like to show you how much I want you, because I do, every part of you." Aziraphale clearly needs him to believe it, though how can he not when the angel looks at him like that? "You are everything to me, Crowley."

"What would you do?" Crowley wants to know, doesn't care how much the answer hurts.

"I would touch you for hours," Aziraphale admits, as if it's obvious. "Days if you would let me, or longer." 

Crowley's cracked noise sounds like it hurts.

"You know I would," he chokes out. "Angel, are you sure you want to do this?" He has to ask, because he'd hate himself if they do this without understanding that it might not work, that one or both of them could be hurt by trying. Because hope is all well and good until it hurts something you love.

Aziraphale must see some of that in his expression, because he gathers him in, warm hands gentle on all Crowley's angles and sharp points. Brushing little stings of pain on his bare skin, and Aziraphale has to feel it too, but his expression never changes, it stays soft and grateful, it stays determined.

"Yes," he says, then leans in, presses their foreheads together. "You were right, I've spent too long accepting the things that hurt me. Refusing to try and change them."

"Aziraphale, I never wanted to be the thing that hurt you," Crowley protests, because the thought is intolerable. It's the thing he hates most about this.

Aziraphale nods. "I know, of course, I know, and no matter what happens, I love you."

Crowley's still not sure if the twisting heat in his stomach is arousal or fear, but he pushes himself back onto the bed, long legs sliding open in invitation. And he knows that Aziraphale's shaken noise of startled arousal is in reaction to him, to the stretch of his long, naked body. He knows that the angel wants to touch him, as much as he wants to touch Aziraphale back. He suspects that making this overtly sexual will squeeze that need tighter, make it more immediate.

"You know I feel the same, angel." He forces his voice to be calm, though his heart is beating faster than he'd given it permission for. The way Aziraphale is _looking_ at him, at the lazy sprawl of him, and he's much too far away. "Now come down here and touch me." He just needs them to have _something_ , some way to be close to each other, and if they need their corporations to do it, then so be it.

Something in Aziraphale cracks, and he's nodding again, sliding onto the bed, knees pressing gently to the inside of Crowley's.

Crowley opens the box of condoms, empties it on the bed, before choosing one at random. The strangely human nature of it is briefly jarring and strangely ironic, but he tears the packet open, fights with the slippery material, which is rolled tightly into a ring and hard to grip. He finally pulls the condom out, and then eyes it for a confused second, trying to decide which way round it goes, before carefully positioning it and rolling it down over Aziraphale's cock. He's careful not to touch the flushed, exposed head, where there's the faintest bead of wetness. Aziraphale makes a quiet, gutted sound under the touch of his hand, and Crowley meets his eyes briefly, offers him a crooked smile. He rolls the condom all the way down to the base, fingers drifting indulgently in coarse, pale hair, while the angel's stomach jumps and pulls in. Crowley brushes his knuckles there, enjoying the softness, the way it prickles under his hand.

"Hold it there," he tells Aziraphale, who immediately drops a hand to obey.

"If it splits," Aziraphale says tightly, voice stiff and serious, as if they're going into battle.

If it splits then Crowley will probably experience hitherto unexplored realms of total fucking agony. Yes, he gets it, he does. It's not like he hasn't considered this, and all the ways it could end. All the ways it could be another possibility that turns to ashes for them, shows them that they were never meant to be together, that they could _never_ be together. No matter how hard they tried.

He fucking refuses. "It won't."

"And if it starts to burn." There's a hurried quality to the words, and Crowley knows Aziraphale is thinking this thing to death. He's tempted to joke that they'll probably both notice that right away, but he bites it back behind his teeth instead. He snaps his fingers sharply, and the feeling of his arse relaxing and lubricating itself isn't exactly sexy, or even particularly pleasant, but it's currently fucking expedient and that's all he cares about right now.

"I'll tell you, I promise, and you can pull out." Or he could just suffer through it and die like that, which is sounding infinitely preferable to the idea of this not working, to the idea of them never being able to touch each other, of never being allowed to have intimacy this way. Because what is there after this? What is there but frustrated touches and distance, and their own hands, and Aziraphale suggesting, _again_ , that Crowley find satisfaction with other people - and that's something Crowley couldn't bear. He'd rather cut his desire out like something rotten, and live without it, than let someone else have something Aziraphale couldn't.

"Ok, come on, come on." 

Aziraphale slides a hand up the inside of Crowley's thigh, a prickling, hot needle sensation that Crowley wants to push into and pull away from at the same time. Aziraphale's touch could never be something he doesn't want, that much has always been true. But it's hard to convince a body not to pull away from things which hurt them. Aziraphale stretches carefully over him, holding himself away from Crowley's skin. He breathes his name, sounding eager and overwhelmed. It makes Crowley shudder and hiss, and remind himself sharply that one of them has to stay in control, one of them has to stay calm. Which seems an impossible thing, but he's been doing impossible things for Aziraphale for a very long time.

The angel seems frozen though, expression conflicted, hands tangled in the sheets.

"It's alright, Aziraphale."

"I don't want to hurt you," Aziraphale protests, as if Crowley didn't already know. His voice raw with the fear of it, like he's afraid it will be taken out of his hands. Afraid that it won't be enough - that he won't be enough. Which is madness, because the angel has given him more than he ever expected already. Far more than he deserves.

"You won't," Crowley tells him, and he can make that the truth if he wants to. He's a fucking demon, he can spare enough concentration to hold one bloody condom together if necessary. He encourages the angel closer with one bent leg, reaching down between them to stroke a slippery hand a few times along Aziraphale's sheathed cock. He can't feel the angel's skin through it, there's just the strange, oddly greasy texture of the thing, stretched tight around the hard jut of the angel's length. Which gives him hope. He pulls, gently, making a soft noise of encouragement, until Aziraphale finally murmurs his name and sways into him.

Crowley lines them up, draws one leg high enough that Aziraphale can curve his arm under it, and he feels the moment Aziraphale's cockhead presses against his slippery hole, catches there, and then slowly breaches him. He shivers out a breath at the easy stretch, at the way Aziraphale moans his name as he slides deeper. Crowley's body opens in one long, delicious ache around him. He tilts his hips, tries to make it easier on both of them. Aziraphale keeps pushing, until he's buried all the way inside him, for the very first time, and Crowley can't help the cracked sound that comes out of him, desperate and stunned.

Aziraphale makes a noise too, but it's short and pained, and Crowley tenses immediately, foot braced to push him out again.

"Aziraphale?" he asks shakily. His whole body is hot, aching, and open, and he's suddenly terrified - but Aziraphale digs fingers briefly into his hips, keeps them together with those quick, stinging throbs of pain, and then shakes his head. 

"No, no, Crowley, you feel amazing, I didn't think - oh, I never thought that we could have this." His eyes are wide with surprise.

Crowley makes a shaky noise of relief, which could be a laugh, but it sounds breathless, helpless. He relaxes into the gentle movement Aziraphale makes, encourages it, because he can feel the heavy stretch of Aziraphale's cock, the gently shifting ache of it. But there's no burn, there's no searing lash of agony. And it's perfect. It's fucking _perfect_.

"Ngk - fuck, I know, angel, I know." Because Crowley honestly hadn't thought that this would work. He'd been hoping, he'd been living in that space where it was a possibility, but never really believing, never expecting them to be given this. Aziraphale is inside him and it _doesn't burn_.

They lay together for a moment, joined in a way they never expected to be, Crowley's fingers lifting to press and stroke at Aziraphale's waist, in little stings of pain that he wouldn't lose for anything. He pulls him a touch closer. He can feel the angel inside him, pressed deep and tight inside his corporation, he can feel the weight of him, the flare of breath across his mouth, the way Aziraphale shakes above him, expression blissful and stunned. He can feel everything, and it's overwhelming.

"Move, angel, come on, I know you want to move." Crowley squeezes down on him.

Aziraphale moans like he can't do anything other than exactly what Crowley wants. He eases back and then presses in again, stretches Crowley out for him in one long push, that leaves Crowley swearing, fingers dropping to tangle hard in the sheets, in the shaky bliss of disbelief. Aziraphale starts moving inside him, slow thrusts that stretch and fill him, in a way that leaves Crowley shaking in pleasure. He doesn't need any extra stimulation, doesn't want it, because it's already too good, too unexpectedly sweet. Crowley has to drop a hand and squeeze at the base of his cock, because he wants this to last. Satan, he wants this to last, but he knows that it won't. They've waited too long, there's too much between them.

Aziraphale moans a breath, sinks deep into him. "Crowley, Crowley, my love, I can't hold back." It sounds like an apology, like Aziraphale will disappoint him if he comes.

"Yeah, it's ok," Crowley agrees, shaky-desperate, because he does know, and there's absolutely no way he can wait either. There's no way he can hope to last. "It's ok, I'm there too, come on, angel."

Aziraphale pushes in all the way, strong hands pressing Crowley's thighs up and out as his body leans into him, pace gone quick and hard and it's everything he's ever wanted. He watches Aziraphale's body, with all its familiar curves and solidity, shake above him, pressed tight and warm between his wide-spread thighs, that sting on every press of the angel's hips, on every squeeze of his hands. He watches the angel drive in and give a long, helpless moan, watches his expression go soft and stunned and utterly beautiful when he comes.

Crowley's own hand is working on himself, slippery pulls that twist at the end, that follow the desperate jerks of his hips, and quick clenches of his internal muscles. The last of which makes Aziraphale grunt a surprised noise of pleasure, hands dragging the sheet up at Crowley's waist and grasping him through it, so he can hold him all the way to the end. The last few pulls are short and sharply sweet - and Crowley cups himself with his own hand, feels the mess hit his fingers and the curl of his palm, warm and slick on his skin, and across his wrist. It's good, it's so good with the angel still buried inside him, and Aziraphale gives a hard, moaning breath at whatever he sees on Crowley's face.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says desperately, gives a dizzy laugh and briefly squeezes him with his thighs as he fights the shivery aftershocks that make him want to push his tacky hands into the sheets. "Oh, Satan, you were perfect," he slurs. "You were so good, angel. You don't know how long -"

Aziraphale shudders, hips grinding in like he wants to go again. Before he forces himself still, hand sliding painfully on Crowley's trembling thigh, before it pulls away on a wince.

"We shouldn't stay like this too long," Aziraphale says, reluctantly, as if he doesn't want to break the mood, but he's willing to be the responsible one. As much as Crowley wants to fold his legs around him and keep them together. He knows Aziraphale is right. He can already feel the much sharper, searing pain at his open thighs, where the angel's skin is starting to sweat against his own.

"Yeah, you're right, I know, hold it at the base as you pull out," Crowley tells him breathlessly. "And umm, best not touch my hand, or y'know, the rest of me. I enjoyed that, ah, kind of excessively."

Aziraphale huffs a breathless noise of delighted agreement, forehead pressing brief and hard against Crowley's, before he carefully eases himself upright and does as he's told, dropping a hand to hold the condom in place as he draws himself out and away. Crowley makes a shivery noise of loss, suddenly empty and aching. 

He lets Aziraphale get rid of his evidence, while he banishes his own into nothing.

They lay next to each other after, touching each other in brief, careful strokes, naked in a way they've never allowed themselves to be, never thought they could be. When it would have been nothing but a cruel reminder of all the things they couldn't have. Crowley still can't quite believe that they get to have this, both of them satisfied, and content.

"I would very much like to kiss you right now," Aziraphale says, voice all gentle rawness.

Almost content, Crowley tells himself. "It'll hurt," he reminds him.

"I find that I don't much care," Aziraphale says recklessly, or bravely, who knows any more. "Not if you don't." 

Crowley huffs a laugh at the very idea of it, and twists round. He carefully rubs as much moisture as he can from his mouth and then shifts up on an elbow, until he's half laying on Aziraphale's chest, feeling the burning ache of it. The angel lifts a hand and pulls fingers through his hair, holds him there. Aziraphale looks uncharacteristically dishevelled in the rumpled sheets, pale hair in disarray, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with pleasure. He looks like an angel who's been rolling around with a demon. Impossible and beautiful.

"I never thought I would ever be able to make love to you," Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley presses his teeth together until his jaw aches, but he makes a soft noise in reply that means exactly the same thing.

He stretches upwards, lays his mouth against Aziraphale's. It sears, it's a flare of hot, slicing pain that both of them hold far longer than they should. Until Aziraphale makes a quiet, wounded noise, and Crowley forces himself away. He watches the skin on Aziraphale's mouth redden and split, then curve gently into a smile. Crowley licks his lips, until his tongue is a tight little ache of pain as well. He knows that holy sting won't fade for days.

"I love you," he says, like a promise.

Aziraphale's arm curls around him, so tightly he has to stop breathing.

"And I love you, always, please never doubt that." 

Crowley can already feel the biting, crawling pain where their bare skin is pressed together worsening, but he can't bear to move away yet.

Not yet.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Rule Of Opposites](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23240362) by [Alien Reads (IneffableAlien)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/Alien%20Reads), [IneffableAlien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/IneffableAlien)




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